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 Jul 2021
vienna bombardieri
Disheveled as the fingers of morning  
this sage in her sedentary stoic seat
needs no purge to enter gloaming

Ripped at the seams by eventide
with hair of finest wheat
she lingers fearless as the tide  

Dormant dreams at sundown's door
chalk faced white as sheet
she drowns, in the ocean bellied floor

taken by the shackles of her wrists
on leaden feet
she walks towards the ether, in Gist
 Jun 2021
Shofi Ahmed
On the edge, the living earth
dared to mimic Queen Fathima's worth,
The Queen of Heaven's grace and poise,
Her footsteps, a blessed path of choice.
This way bedewed with divine light,
A numinous destination of sight,
Graced by thousands of prophets of God,
the hallowed, mirror-polished sod -
The ultimate path that all should tread,
Closing endless pi's transcended thread,
Leading to perfection's true embrace,
The loving cosmos' eternal glue, circling grace.

In the name of Allah the Most Gracious,
the Most High, the One and only One, she descended,
On the Night of Ascension, her path transcended.
From the Night of Measures, she came,
Her frame, heaven's dark matter, a mystery untamed.
A divine dot in terra incognita,
A fondly-folded bud where time doth bloom.
If one can see up to where it rose,
Paradise sways towards this uncharted way
The only guide, oft is a glimpse of Queen Fathima's eye!

The only asymmetrical golden ratio,
Steps forth amidst the symmetrical prophet flock.
The earth makes way for her in awe,
In sequence she moves with the golden lock.
Cloaked in mystery, she reveals
Her unique, divine relation to the divine.
Makes measured moves at the forefront,
Shining the light ever drawing closure to God.

She is so pretty and classy, the paragon of art,
The sunrise amidst the eternal night.
Her beauty is a burning fire in her shadow,
She is 'Zahra,' pure light, a luminary dynamo.
The only woman in heaven and earth with no shadow!

The great flock of women mirrors the earth,
Following each atom on that angled girth,
Aligned perfectly under the waxing full moon's worth.
Lo, they approach the behemoth's might,
Atoms beneath their skin explode in their finest sway,
And beneath Fathima's feet, vibrations take flight.

'Nature' is a feminine she—a gradual revelation indeed,
of the ultimate paragon—Paradise, never to cease.
Here’n hereafter, eyes on the masterstroke:
Queen Fathima at the peak!

The ocean billows up, floating with the clouds,
like choreographed dewdrops, low on the rose—
ready to shower that blessed spot with honey-drops.

Even the Moon on the horizon follows suit—
ah, the lunar punter rows, sipping the dew like fruit.
Sleeping beauty awakes in the moonlit night,
silver dancing in her eyes, stars burning bright.

The Moon sails down from its celestial height;
The seven seas hum in the cosmos' dark,
Exuberant fireflies pulsing with a starlit spark—
An ultimate sublunary craft,
Gently steering on heaven's path.
Tiny tricksters rock the moonlit boat,
Swaying soft toward that sweet drop afloat.

Poetry in motion, the sea on the ground—
beauty reflected in the Moon’s soft crown.
Storylines leap and dance all around,
painting the winds in colours unbound.
Over the grove, the rhythm rolls on,
raining from heaven on that sweet spot—
singing the sweetest of all title songs.

Never was there a woman—a prophet of God—
but for the primitive woman, the leading lady,
the sharpest cut, above the rest—
she leads the pack, outshines the test.
Sayeedatun Nessa, Queen Fathima.
No secrets Heaven holds—only an open mirror.

The secret is: Fathima touched the bottom of the Earth first,
raising the foundation—building man’s first house to last.
In her elements—pure, motherly, universal,
and uniquely one—lived an otherworldly love.
Womankind scores that only by entering paradise.

“There is no night, only déjà vu moonlight.
The pious homemakers, these veiled tuberoses,
were hidden gems to the sublunary fireflies—
soon to become open moons in heaven’s secret skies.”

The Huris—seventy or more in a mesmerizing array—
draped in splendor, formed of light, timeless in display.
But still, their gaze is drawn in awe, not envy or ploy,
to the one real McCoy:
the small Earth’s women in paradise.

The universe debuts a primitive water dew.
Fathima drops in it her duo of hairs—
lovingly raises a tearful Earth into her velvet lock—
the perfect circle, at the ever-evolving Earth's core,
the only otherworldly matter, there's no more!

All things that ever float on the ocean of creation vanish soon,
but this Earth—the cosmos’ deep mind—is still a bloomer,
lodged on a tangent of the Queen’s otherworldly lock.
It’s her perfectly knotted perfect circle—its science.
She moved the needle at the beauty spot—
enduring art in its subtlest form.

Fathima keeps nature in the loop—
a stroke of Allah SWT’s divine AI,
its neurons in deep learning, pre-designed with sacred data,
outpouring through the Output Layer: predictions, futures—
each returning to the past,
to a moment before moments,
when there was only one:
a purposeful, intelligent design.

Boom! Absolutely pure—the Big Bang follows.

Lo! The elementary, pristine water interacts
with Fathima's otherworldly deep black lock.
Now, innate dark energy ignites the bud in bloom.
Nature cracks the first light—grabs the paintbrush.

The rose smiles on Earth, the sun on sky—
building ever more,
treasuring the lucky lock in Earth’s core.

Chorus of the First Dawn
(sung by the nightingales and birds of the first universe)

Before time ticked, before stars sang—
there was water, still and unseen.
Not chaos, but calm. Not void, but waiting.
The origin was not random.
It was her.

Fathima—Allah SWT’s masterstroke,
the paragon form of nature itself.
She did not follow creation.
She caused it.

With a drop of her otherworldly chiaroscuro,
dark energy stirred,
and the universe—
burst into being.

The Queen’s first impression hooks on—
the motionless Earth, in dew, makes the first move.
A polished golden spiral blooms, expanding ever more.
The last thing the sun can’t do: look away.
After the Big Bang—big fireworks—still: Ratqan, a black mole,
thicker than the black moon, gravitates the cosmos!

Walking in the dark ahead of the sun and moonlight,
one step up that shadowed path the Queen cemented on,
perfectly—circle pi-locks—the Earth takes a Ma pause.
Until, God willing, Fathima’s locks finally bottom in,
the long haul of time squeezing out paradise upside—for good.
The heavenly Queen shines the light at the secret end of God.

The planetary ebb and flow move toward heaven—
planet Earth, the only steppingstone.
No matter how many times they try,
there will always be an unturned stone—
until the one, the original woman,
Queen Fathima, steps on.

Dots connect in her presence.
The nadir and the zenith perfectly intersect—
once and for all, mingling in her perfect circle,
without a single gap in the whole.
A pure Scientia scenario:
As above, so below.

Where the Queen stands,
heaven will open its grand door.
No more reverse engineering the original—
God willing, Fathima will step
on the last turned stone.

From the one, the greatest woman,
paradise begins—
from beneath the mother’s foot.
 Jun 2021
Paul Idiaghe
press your ears to the green
of your eden. listen
to hell, its realness. it is the feeling  

that I write from. a distant burn
that blinks in the blackened
pages of his chest

as a star—only a piece
of the map that has led his heart
to yours, only a sliver to be scrapped  

by sunrise. I could speak of this:
his garden, the teeth around its margins,
or the way I waded near its grin,

with both eyes unbuttoned & my soft
heart worn inside-out. but your flesh
is ivory, & where it tapers, a key

to his own. but your throat is flute
enough to tread through his walls. listen.
I will speak of the wild heart

holding you. I have touched it
with my shadows, the deep
rays of my dreams. I have been

to its shrubs that whirl about
like wicks, the ponds full of laughter,
& the caves with leaping  

tongues. they are mystery
& aplenty. I could not quench them,
but you will, you will. if one

day, as you lay in his fields,
I stumble over his sky like a word
on fire. remember,

love, to make of me,
a better wish.
 Jun 2021
Coffee with Cream
I look at the painting,
The green forestry,
Pale blue sky,
Labourers in red clothes,
Wearing white.
Is this right?
Maybe, I’m in black, benefiting,
Upholding a treasury,
One had to die…
They graciously do, keeping the oaths,
That the old brown book writes.
It says that, right?
Would I know when I’m part of the problem?
 Jun 2021
Brett
Are we just sitting around counting down the clock to doomsday?
Casual watchers of the apocalypse
Like another piece of news to gossip with
“On the tube today, all the free worlds have up and gone the way
   Of every other empire too resigned to say….”
Maybe today,
Is the day we change

Beggar, sir, please, come and play
Your empty tin can tunes
                    Politician, sir, please, preach me your wants
                    And masquerade them as my needs
Hurt me, so you can wipe my dying tears away
Enslave me, so you can break the chains and whisper I’m free
Be all you have ever been. Seemingly, all that you can be.
Why can we never seem to get it right. What does it even mean to be human anymore. Is there any purpose in the world outside our own selfish desires?
 Jun 2021
JAM
Too opinionated,
too open-minded,
or indifferent.

Too real,
too fake,
or inconsistent.

We ask ourselves
to know the other.
"Kindness," we say.
It's no matter how
hard,
soft,
or careless.

One is
asked
to assess their total failure,
or mediocrity,

against the striations of normalcy
until one finds themselves
in odds and errors.

There are some people
in such strangeness
that finding the right pill
is their greatest victory.

There are some people
who are so normal,
so consistent,
that looking at themselves
without a filter
is their greatest defeat.

But you know
and I know
and they know

that as the screens darken,
as the red curtain rises,
as the black stage beckons,

you know
and I know
and they know

that it does not flatter.
And there is no flatter
curve
than mixing with the grain,
or mixing our tears
with the rain.

And like long talks
our blood spills upon the floor,
thicker than water.
But water has been there before,

running wild-eyed through alleyways
on days darker than **** from hard work.
And we're so dehydrated
that a single drop of truth,
reality,
inflates our brain like a dry sponge.

There is a mental expansion so painful
that shots to the belly
might be a blessing,
if keeping it real is the smoking gun.

It’s a constant that we are
killed by hands entrenched in opinion,
convinced they are
the open ones.
It is an error
that is
the total failure of a life lived out of focus,
measured in "I'm right" and "they're wrong."

There is a glass ball of hindsight,
but it is foggy
from too much pride,
too much embarrassment,
or no awareness.

It is fear though,
scratching at the chest
like starving rats
in a newly opened cage,
that can keep anyone from looking back
on their failure to be
self-aware.
 May 2021
Ryan O'Leary
Yes, it is a new word which
describes a visibile trait in
those who cry wolf and growl.

This has been Israel’s modus
operandi since time & memorial,
The Poor Me’es, but it is over.

The schizophrenia has to stop,
no more tantrums, you were
given your own field to play in.

If your ball comes over the wall
it will be thrown back, no need
to send a battalion to fetch it.

                        O
 May 2021
Nobody
What becomes of me
when nothing remains
my god
it's happening again
close your eyes

I stumble over myself
in the darkness of mind
and I perceive myself
as I am, as I am not

I am he
he is they
they are we
and I am nothing
but the sum of my parts

Ideas take shape
they form,
they split
and I am overcome
I am --
countless parts
moving in unison

I am he
he is they
they are we
we are she
she is I
and I am no longer--
alone in the dark.
 May 2021
Sonorant
Souls, once one in the sun,
Now reach for fallen stars.
Ludic, hopeless fingers—
G r a s p i n g
For a sole thread of truth.

Don’t fly too close, little firefly.
For it’s flame shall render
All your desires and dreams
To spurned puddles of wax.

D r i p p i n g

In these wrinkled hands
Formed for puppets
A silhouette on the sphere
As the Earth only knows,
The darkness it adheres.
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